


Le Journal du Capitaine Jean-Luc Picard de L’Enterprise

by eldweebo



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldweebo/pseuds/eldweebo
Summary: A historical naval AU about the old sailor Jean-Luc Picard discovering a mysterious automaton known only as "Data." Written originally for the Human After All, a charity zine dedicated to Data, published Fall 2019.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Le Journal du Capitaine Jean-Luc Picard de L’Enterprise

Vendredi, 13 Mars  
Today, we set sail on another voyage on L’Enterprise, the finest ship in all of Europe. It is a routine transit, beginning here in London and terminating on the Côte d'Ivoire. My joy, however, lies in between. The Golfe de Gascogne may be charted down to all but the final inches, and the Meditteranean may be rife with Spanish galleons and Portuguese caravels, but this old heart of mine, the heart of a seaman, a heart shaped by the salty winds and rocking waves, this heart knows there is yet more to see in that vast blue expanse of the Atlantic.  
I have selected for my senior crew only those of my previous companions I deem my favorites. There are, of course, my two mademoiselles, Doctor Beverly Crusher and the fortune teller Diane Trois. Without the counsel and insight of these two, I fear I would run my ship aground before the sun set. For my first mate, I have selected William Riker. He is a Royal Navy man through and through, a man of honor and discipline. Or at least that is what he would like you to think! I have seen this man on shore leave and all I will say is that he is sufficiently familiar with the intricacies of humanity. My boatswain is a brilliant young man from the French navy named Géraud La Forge. He could make a seaworthy vessel out of moth-britten breeches. And what is more, he is completely blind! His other senses are beyond compare, and he moves as if he is part of the boat itself. Finally, we have Señor Wilfredo de Montero. Now, let it be known that I am not a violent man, nor do I condone violence in any way, going so far as sail without cannons aboard for my first dozen voyages. However, rough waters are not the only thing an aging sailor has to fear, and Wilfredo is a man of honor and strategy. The trick with him is merely to dismiss his first two ideas until he presents one of sufficient compassion and humanity.  
In but a few minutes, I will cut loose our moorings and we will set sail yet again. I am not a superstitious man, and I do not tend to rely on so-called gut feelings, but I need not Madame Trois’ second sight to confirm what I know intuitively: today we begin a great voyage, one that will provide immense nourishment to my curious seafarer’s heart.

Dimanche, 15 Mars  
There is no greater love, no deeper mystery, no siren call more beckoning than the crashing waves and rustling winds of Neptune’s ocean. Just two days on the sea and I am revitalized.   
Strongs winds from the East. Madame Trois’ tarot deck predicts a storm. What’s more, Señor Wilfredo has heard rumors the Spanish Navy is playing with their cannons in the southern end of the bay. Well fortified by rations and aptitude, we are prepared to avoid the Golfe de Gascogne for now, choosing to skirt the eastern edge of the fair Atlantic.

Mercredi, 18 Mars  
Señor Wilfredo’s paranoia and the premonitory abilities of Madame Trois do not disappoint. With a rather magnificent telescope constructed by Boatswain La Forge, Will was able to spy first a powerful tempest, then a fleet of galleons making their way northward. Nothing to concern ourselves with at our distant posting at the bay’s edge.  
Routines are forming, specifically routines extracurricular to our duties as seamen. Will Riker has introduced the crew to whist, and it has become a nightly event, by candle- and moonlight after supper. Señor Wilfredo has instituted physical exercise, which, as both captain and a man of advanced age, I am thankfully exempt from.  
What’s more, I have seen more than once one of my young sailors sneaking off to Madame Trois’ cabin for a reading of cards or palms. It seems I am not the only one on board with a sense of expectation for this journey.

Jeudi, 19 Mars  
Our client, Monsieur Quentin, will have to wait a little longer for his shipment of furs. The horizon is pocked with white, the sails of countless galleons. I fear some international incident may have broken out. Lucky for us, we are of no nation. Less fortunately, Diane has foreseen with her crystal ball yet another tempest, this one off the coast of Portugal. Géraud’s barometer would seem to corroborate this. We will have to stray into the wild ocean simply to get to Africa. I must confess, while this is a waste of time, and may even stretch thin our resources, I reacted to the news with no small amount of glee. I have not waded into the Atlantic proper since I was a much younger man, not since I travelled with Vanessa, mon cheri morte, and its absence in my life has made me all the more eager to dive into the biting maw of deepest ocean. What will these waters hold, familiar to so many men and still unknown to me? What wonders await? Ah, truly, there is no aging when the world goes on forever.

Samedi, 21 Mars  
We continue our westerly progress into the Atlantic. I thank the stars and the sea for my crew, as they are all amenable to austerity, a necessity if we are to make our supplies last. Luckily we have on board a man of great fishing ability in Señor Wilfredo, who has already wrangled us some enviable morsels. He did so, it should be mentioned, with a fishing rod of Géraud’s devising. The line is not some weak bit of string, prone to breaking at the slightest tug of a tuna, but instead a narrow strand of spun aluminum. Additionally, Will has spotted a small island off the starboard bow, and on it some promising looking trees. It is somewhat off course but the lure of a possible discovery (or even a smattering of fresh coconuts) is impossible to resist.

Dimanche, 22 Mars  
Do the wonders of this world never cease? Cartographers may lay out every inch of this globe on parchment, astronomers may find every yard between us and the celestial bodies, chemists may distill the human being to a handful of unseen particles, yet our lives will suffer no diminution of amazement and surprise.   
Seeking little more than fresh fruit and game, we made land on the small island. Before we even dropped anchor, we saw the signs of life, the ramshackle shelter and the scattered remnants of what seemed to be, on later inspection, an expensive set of alchemist’s tools. There was great risk of an unfriendly encounter, that was apparent without even the advice of Señor Wilfredo. With a crew our size, and a few firearms and swords among us, we were confident we could return safely to the ship. Upon inspection of the waterfront and the shelter there, it seemed unlikely that more than one person lived on the island. With the lack of food, clothes, or really any sign of life, it seemed that whoever lived there had left at one point some months or years ago, either the island or this mortal plane. With no sign of this stranger nor of potable water or edible food, we were about to return to our ship when we heard the strangest sound, the creaking of wood like the hold of a ship in rough waters, and over that the sound of ticking and grinding, like a thousand pocket watches. A man, well, a sort of a man emerged from the foliage. He was pale and shining, so that we had to avert our eyes when the early afternoon sun reflected off of his face. He moved slowly and deliberately, as if it caused him great pain. When he was in our midst, all of us in stunned silenced, his mask of a face parted at the mouth, and, my gods, I can barely believe it now, spoke!  
He greeted us in a language we did not recognize, one of the Orient. Seeing our puzzlement, he repeated himself, then tried a few other words. “Hello,” he said finally in English, before repeating it in French and Latin. “I am Data.”  
I returned his greeting in French, and asked him what he was doing on this lonely island.  
“It is my home,” he said. He explained how he and his father, a brilliant doctor from the Orient named Song, had been travelling by boat some years ago, before violent weather brought Data to this island and Doctor Song to an early grave.  
“You’ve lived here for years?” I asked.  
“Yes,” he replied.  
“But what do you do for food? For water?” Riker asked.  
“I require neither food nor water, good sir,” Data said. “I merely need to wind my gears twice daily.” Then this Data turned to face away from us and pressed a finger to the small of his back, causing his abdomen to split open like a chest of drawers and reveal within a clockwork nightmare. I thought I might faint on the spot, from excitement if not terror.  
We returned to the ship after a little more confounding conversation. Data remains on the shore. We have decided to anchor here for the night, while I discuss with Will, Beverly, and Diane what to do with this man who isn’t a man.

Lundi, 23 Mars  
We have, to Señor Wilfredo’s great trepidation, decided to bring this Data on board with us. If there is ill-intent in this creature it is buried deep. He seems a curious and scientifically minded fellow, with a knack for logic and sums. His social graces are well learned if lacking in polish. His mannerisms are utterly odd. Now on the ship, we’ve gotten a closer look at him. His body is made of a dark, polished wood, joined together with burnished copper and iron. His face is an intricate porcelain mask. The upper half, the lower jaw, and each eyelid are different segments, mechanisms joined to the mask of the face. A hand-crank folds out from under his right arm, which he says winds him up. His body can be opened easily for repair, or, in our case, examination. Boatswain La Forge inspected his clockwork innards and found them to be somewhat beyond his capacity for understanding or explaining. Suffice to say that this Doctor Song, who we can assume to be Data’s manufacturer, was a craftsman and scientist of some great ability. I have La Forge and Riker testing his mental aptitude and moral fiber right now.   
When I said at the offset of this journey that I yearned for a discovery, I never wished in a million years it would be something like this.

Mardi, 24 Mars  
This Data has proven himself quite a marvel. First we had given him some large sums to do, square roots and logarithmic equations and the like. Data made the calculations within a fraction of a second. He then further impressed us by calculating the precise distance of the shores of the Iberian peninsula from the port bow, then our latitude and longitude, then a number of complicated astronomical, geographical, and even geochemical proofs. He is like a walking machine of calculation and computation.   
While he seems to lack what I will have to call, for lack of a more scientific term, a soul, he does have an innate presence of humanity, not to mention the upstanding morals and virtues of a philosopher-king. Will Riker conducted a thorough trial of his moral fiber, and there is nothing scarier than a naval man’s moral compunctions. Data seems unfamiliar with scripture, but that has never bothered me much. However, malice is alien to him. The very suggestion of thievery or assault leaves him like stupefied child.   
While the crew has found his artificial features and stilted manners somewhat off putting, Data has put in the utmost effort to befriend them. Every time I step out of my quarters, I see him swabbing the deck, hoisting the sails, calibrating Géraud’s instruments. He even managed to impress Wilfredo with a trick shot of the pistol, hitting a moving gull from some fifty feet away. The gunman remains very suspicious of him, but that is his nature after all.   
Data does not require sleep, but I have given him what quarters I could, if only to prevent him wandering the deck at night and spooking any light sleepers. His room is little more than a closet, but he has settled there with some improvised furniture and a handful of books from my library and he seems rather comfortable.  
Oh yes, and he’s made a fast friend of the ship’s cat.

Jeudi, 26 Mars  
Ill sightings off of the starboard bow. A large ship with red and black sails. A ship that size shouldn’t be able to surprise us that way. I don’t like it.

Vendredi, 27 Mars  
I must admit, I am not always so pleased to be correct. Today, I regret my suspicions of the ship with red and black sails were correct. (Madame Trois suspects an innate supernatural observation on my part, I insist it is merely the wisdom of an old sailor.) The ship pulled alongside our own when my crew had barely wiped the sleep from their eyes. I did not need to hear the introductory remarks to know the bastard pirate’s name. Q. The foul demon has beset me time and time again. How, in such a wide ocean, in a world of such endless sights and a deafening horde of people, do my ship and his reunite on nearly every voyage?   
In a seafaring career as long as mine, one gets to know pirates very well. There exists, contrary to public opinion, a vast diversity of pirates and pirating styles. There are those who will simply rob you. There are those who will fight you and, upon a loss, humbly slink away. There are those who never accept defeat and pursue you until your ship is reduced to ash and your crew to bones. There are those who inflict harm for sadistic joy. The dread pirate Q is a special, unique kind of pirate: he is a nuisance. Yes, he sets out to rob and at times do harm, but he appears to delight in the frustration and upset of his victims above all else. He is capricious and almost entirely without empathy. I have seen him throw men overboard to prove a point. Yet cruelty does not seem his intent. No, in Q’s eyes, success is neither plunder nor pain, it is annoyance.   
When people ask how, in this later stage of life, I remain so lively, so healthy, I tell them it is because I do my best to empty my heart of hate. No man makes that task harder, so entirely insurmountable, than Q.  
Q’s first mate called out across the water their demands, stated their intent to board, and suggested we surrender peacefully. All the while, Q stood smirking, watching. I had Señor Wilfredo disclose our answer with a barrage of cannonfire, and we pulled ahead. Even as I write this, Q’s ship is in hot pursuit. I expect that, come morning, we will find ourselves face to ugly face with the pirates.  
This is a new experience for our Data. He has heard of pirates, understands them in the theoretical, but has never been face to face. While I regret having to starve his curiosity, I instructed him to stay below deck during the encounter. I fear, no, I am certain that the sight of this wood and porcelain man would attract undue attention from Q. 

Lundi, 30 Mars  
The sea may yet hold too much excitement for a heart as old as mine!   
For a day and a half we played cat and mouse with Q, pulling ahead as fast as the winds allowed, firing off a few well-placed warning shots, then quickly falling under the shadows of his masts. We pushed the crew, going so far as to use oars when our wind would not provide. Alas, my Enterprise, though she is fast and she is tough, is no pirate ship. When Q tore a hole through our mizzenmast, we were forced to slow down, setting him upon us.  
“It’s no use, Jean-Luc,” he called from the stern of his ship. Before I could answer Señor Wilfredo answered with his pistol. I do not like my men to fire without my command but I will admit to great disappointment when a foul wind set his bullet off course.  
“We have nothing for you, Q,” I called back, straining my voice over the crashing waves.  
“Oh, you always have something for me, mon capitan.” His devil’s grin could be seen a hundred feet off. “What is it this time? Rubies? Gold? No, an old man like you, you’ll have settled for a slower game. Oh, I don’t know, maybe furs?”  
“Do you think he knows?” Will asked me.  
“It is possible,” came a voice. We turned to see Data, emerging from below deck.  
“Monsieur Data, I believe I told you to stay below deck,” I said.  
“Yes, my apologies, Captain,” he said. “But I think I can be of use up here.”  
“How so?” Will asked.  
Data presented a piece of parchment, on which I recognized the seal of the London docks and trade guild. “Captain, you allowed me to read the ship’s manifest.”  
“Yes, I thought it would do you some good in understanding our job here and the operations on the ship.”  
“And it has,” he continued. “In the manifest was this receipt, presented to you at departure.”  
“So?” Will interjected. I touched his arm, hoping to remind him which side of the water our enemies were on.  
“This is your copy of the receipt. The guild has another copy of the receipt.”  
“Still in the London office,” I said. “Yes, I see.”  
“Well, I don’t,” Will said.  
“This Q, the Captain said that he has been relentlessly pursued by Q on almost every voyage. I don’t think it is any coincidence that he has found us here.”  
“You think he followed us from London?” I said.  
“Indeed, sir. I believe he obtained the ship’s manifest from the guild officers in London for the sole purpose of following and robbing you. I still do not understand why. Furs do not seem to be valuable enough to justify the length nor the difficulty of the pursuit.”  
“It is not about the furs, mon garçon.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Q and I first met many years ago, on my first atlantic voyage as captain, and I bested him in a game of wits. Since then he has plagued me at every turn, seeking rematch or retribution, and occasionally succeeding. I will not bore you with the details, but suffice to say that this is a wholly personal, egoistic task on Q’s part.”  
Data was about to speak when we heard the first blast of cannonfire. The ship lurched as a ball of lead tore out our crow’s nest. The navigator, a young man from the south of France, leaped out just in time. However, the young man did not plot his trajectory well, and was about to collide face-first with the rough wood of the deck if not for Data grabbing him out of midair. I do not know how it was done. One moment we stood shoulder to shoulder in discussion, the next he was ten feet forward, my crewman in his arms. The young man was dazed but entirely unharmed.  
“Q!” I called out. My cheeks flushed, my hand was on my cutlass. “This has to stop. You are endangering lives all for some pitiable contest of wills. This ends here, here and no further!”  
“Oh, mon capitan,” he said, sotto voce audible over the silent tension of both crews. “What can you do to stop me? You’ve tried many a time, yet how often do you succeed?”  
Before I could respond, Riker pulled me away from the edge of the ship, which I hadn’t even realized I’d been leaning over.   
“Come,” he whispered, “you’re going to get yourself shot. What’s more, Data has a plan.”  
I cocked my brow. Now this was something to get my interest, even in the midst of this debacle. We slipped into my cabin as our gunmen and theirs resumed their play. A few minutes later I reemerged, flanked by Will on my left and Data on my right, Riker and I concealing our amusement at the events to come. I signalled to Wilfredo to cease fire and, with a puzzled look, he did. Seeing this, Q gave similar orders, and approached the facing bow.   
“What now, Jean-Luc? Do you have another moralizing speech on honor and bravery and how very crude it is to be a pirate?”  
“No, Captain Q,” I said. “I have a challenge for you.” Before he could launch another quip, I drew my sword and pointed it at him. “En garde, Q.”  
“Are you going to strike me from across the water? Hah! I did not know your eyesight had become so bad in your old age.” His cronies were silent until they saw his scowl, and then began to laugh as if they’d just been told the funniest joke they had ever heard.  
“No, monsieur,” I said. “We will meet in the middle. Pull in closer and extend your plank.”  
“And why should I trust you? How do I know you won’t sic your attack dog on my the moment I step away from my ship?” He motioned to Wilfredo.  
“Señor,” I called out. “Hand your gun to Boatswain LaForge, and have your men do the same.”  
“But capitán-”  
“That was an order Señor Wilfredo, now, please,” I said without turning away from Q. Satisfied that my crew was sufficiently disarmed, Q gave the order to extend the plank. I watched as a giddy excitement eroded the suspicion on his face.  
“Meeting the great Jean-Luc Picard in honorable combat? And above a roaring ocean? Why, we should have a rematch in the Thames or the Seine, and sell tickets to watch. That is, if you make it out of this fight alive.” Q bounded onto his plank as it settled on the guardrails of my ship in a single, flamboyant leap. With Data and Will’s help, and considerably more effort, I made it up. A wave bucked one of the ships, twisting the narrow plank in mid-air, and I nearly fell then and there.  
“If this is too difficult for you, old man, we can ask the ocean if she’ll calm down for you.” His crew forced their laughter again. In lieu of an answer, I pointed my sword at him.   
“En garde,” I repeated. His smile fell and he drew his sword, a brutish, clunky number, meant for breaking skulls as much as slicing skin.   
“En garde,” he replied, and lunged. I parried, batting his blade away. He lunged again, so I pulled back. He did not pursue, seeing that would lead us back onto my ship, so I returned fire with a strike to his left shoulder. A glancing blow, he parried my blade away and nearly caught my arm. Lunge. Parry. Riposte. Lunge. Parry. Riposte. I could see him tiring of my martial game, until finally he gave into his crueler instincts. He faked to my right, then swung hard and two-handed to my left. With no option to parry, I did the only thing I could, and dropped, hugging the wood. Q stumbled and fell atop me, scraping his face on the rough wood. He regained his poise in stunning time, swinging at me as I scrambled to my feet. No stranger to dirty tricks, I slipped between his legs and came around, knocking his shoulder with my hilt. He turned and caught me this time, in the ribs. I returned with ever greater energy, a jab going low and inside, as if making for his sword hand. I missed, of course, every rookie knows a jab at your opponent’s sword is a flashy, cocky move, one with immense strategic vulnerability. A vulnerability Q did not hesitate to exploit, swinging at my exposed back and knocking me down once again. I should thank Q, really, for giving me that little extra push of momentum. Without it, I fear I would not have been within striking range of the ropes that held the plank to his boat.  
“Haul!” I heard Riker order as the board gave way beneath us. Géraud’s fishing wire around my waist went taut, and as soon as my feet touched the water, I was flying back up to the deck. It took Data only three pulls to bring me fully on board.  
“Jean-Luc, you’re wounded.” Beverly grabbed me.  
“Doctor Crusher, I promise we will look at it as soon as we are out of harm’s way.”  
“I think harm is well out of our way, Captain.” Will chuckled and pointed towards the water, where Q sputtered and splashed.   
“Throw me a rope, you buffoons,” he shouted at his crew, whose laughter was considerably less forced than earlier.  
“That was excellent, Data,” I said, throwing my arms around the man. (And, yes, must we not consider him as such?) “A brilliant plan, to rival even Vice-admiral de Villaret-Joyeuse.” Clapping him on the back, I released him, so giddy in my victory that I had not noticed the pain of knocking against his stony form.  
“Thank you, Captain,” he said, not cracking the slightest hint of a smile. “But is it not too early to celebrate? They still have their cannons pointed towards us.”  
I turned, somewhat alarmed, but my fears were instantly assuaged. The pirate crew hooted and howled as Q trod water and let loose a multilingual storm of invective. “I don’t think we have much to fear out of them. Hoist the sails,” I called to my crew. “Monsieur Quentin awaits in Morocco, let us make haste.”

Mardi, 14 du Avril  
We have successfully made our shipment of furs, albeit at a steep discount to our fee. Monsieur Quentin negotiates the smallest transaction as if there is an empire to gain. He lives by a set of fiduciary rules that he takes as a holy moral code. I do not respect the man very much, but he is a fine business partner. I had, of course, known of his wiles before we ever set off and as such set a much higher than reasonable starting price, so even after the bargaining my crew is secured a fair payment. In addition, I have declared shore leave. Morocco is beautiful at this time of year and Casablanca has enough life in it for three of my dear Paris. The crew is spending their time exploring this wild city, far outpacing these aging sealegs of mine.  
Ah, and Data. My fine forged fellow. I have rented quarters for myself with an additional bedroom for him. While he has the arithmetic mind of a Monsieur Pascal, he is still so much like a child, so earnest, full of curiosity, ready to see the world. Never having the joy of progenation myself, I did not immediately recognize the feeling but it has come to me more clearly in the days since his brilliance with Q. I feel for Data, though I just met him, as if he were my flesh and blood, and I his father. I am schooling him in history, science, the arts, and, most important of all, sailing. It gives me a profound joy I have not had since my late Vanessa. I believe I may just make a captain out of him one day. And he may make doubly a man out of me.


End file.
